


When A Dream Appears

by Wedeck



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 01:06:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14069562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wedeck/pseuds/Wedeck
Summary: So a synth walks into the Lucky 38...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless self-indulgence fic. [Context here.](http://ebooleant.tumblr.com/post/170211529408/i-never-want-to-draw-securitrons-again-but)

“Here we are,” crowed Victor over the roar of the closing North Gate. “New Vegas!”

Greta blinked. It had been four months since she’d last stepped into the Strip, and she swore everything had gotten bigger — the crowds, the buildings, the neon signs, their halos. Squinting against the bright lights, she struggled to see through the vague shapes that swam in the multicoloured field of her vision. “It sure looks... different, doesn't it?”

“Sure is, friend. Strip’s changed up a bit since you was here last. The boss managed to lasso in some professionals and prettied up the place, as it were. Bunch of real mathy types — engineers, scientists, mechanics, architects — 'specially architects — you name 'em. Put 'em on a bunch of different jobs. Take a look over there!”

He swept a claw in the direction of the Tops, and Greta’s gaze — now better adjusted to the lights of New Vegas — followed. Beside the casino was a building she remembered as nearly crumbling and guarded by a lone Securitron whose duty it was to warn citizens of falling debris; now, with its trapezoidal silhouette and smooth white exterior, the rubble had been transformed into a worthy neighbour to the Chairmen’s cradle, attractive and slick. At its crown a neon sign that read “The Regal” — Sheldon’s work, she was sure — pulsated red and white, asserting its presence on the Strip.

“...fuller than a Brahmin-bag every night it’s open,” Victor was saying when her amazement had worn off. “Those reels you found sure came in handy! Even got westerns from time to time.”

“What’s a western?”

“What’s a — shucks, you ain’t never heard of a western?” He let out a tinny robot whistle. “Well, I can’t spoil that for you. Think you’ll like ‘em, though. Maybe when you’re done with the boss, we can catch one.”

Ah, the boss. Her work. This was familiar ground, something less disorienting than the new additions to Vegas Victor had been rattling off. She shot the cowboy robot a wry smile.

“I guess so. —But what _does_ Mr. House want from me, anyway? He called me back pretty suddenly.”

“Now, even if I _did_ know, what makes you think I’d tell you?”

“I thought he didn’t like surprises?”

“Mr. House? He likes a surprise just fine… long as it ain’t a snake in his boot.”

“What if I'm worried about there being a snake in my boot, too?”

“In _your_ boot? Now, are you callin’ us snakes? After everything we've been through? I thought we were all friends here.”

“I’m just speculating. And no,” said Greta, laughing, “Mr. House is the boss. _We're_ friends.”

“Is that right?” Victor put a claw over where a Securitron’s heart might have been, his screen brightness flickering. She was sure the gesture was more sarcastic than his constant smile could convey. “I'm touched.”

“I mean it!”

“I like you, too, pardner. —Tell you what, though, you're right about Mr. House being the boss. The boss who just said if you don't drag your hide up there lickety split, he'll have a word about it with those Followers of yours.”

“And you don't think there's a snake in my boot?” Shaking her head, still smiling, she started in the direction of the Lucky 38. Victor followed behind her at a slow crawl.

“Just a reward for all the work you've been doing, that's all it is. Like Grant gets.”

Greta reached for the handles of the casino. Like so many of the doors she had pulled open in the past four months, they were cool to the touch. Briefly she thought about the doors to Old North Church in Cambridge and the maze of a crypt beneath, how one of the members of the Railroad had told her to walk softly and avoid disturbing the dead. “But that's because Grant’s the Courier,” she said after a moment.

Victor shifted back on his wheel as if contemplating. Then he leaned forward again.

“So’re you.”

*

The penthouse hadn’t changed. It had the same eerie feel, whether that was the fault of the dim lighting, the unavoidable giant head on a monitor, or both; the same clanking and clattering from the Securitrons as they recalibrated themselves, shifting to see the new arrival, on their single wheels; the same stale air, thick with dust and Old World memories, that never seemed to flow out no matter how its owner fiddled with the ventilation or which windows Grant opened. Still as a snowglobe, a world of its own.

For a moment Greta felt foreign, estranged from herself as déjà-vu took root. Several moments (or were they minutes?) passed before she shook her head to free her thoughts; then, inhaling a lungful of the musty air, she stepped out of the elevator, waved at the robots’ static screens, and headed for the stairs where her employer awaited.

“You took your time coming here,” boomed the computer as she came to a stop before it. Rich, distinctive, a little dry — that was Robert House, all right. “Was there a cholera outbreak in Freeside?”

“Freeside’s doing okay! No cholera, thank goodness.” She glanced up at the screen, at the monitors beside it, into the cameras mounted on the walls of the penthouse. She was never sure where to look when she spoke to House. “The Strip looks like it's running even more smoothly than before.”

“You sound like you were expecting anything less, but yes. I've expanded the Strip’s offerings in a number of ways. You already know about the theater, of course.”

“Victor told me I should watch a western.”

“As your first foray into film? Hardly. The cinematography of _Hell’s Angels_ should give you better insight into the capabilities of the silver screen — and why it draws scores of people in every night.”

“Scores! It sounds like a… a good investment,” said Greta, who had only learnt what a score was a week ago and didn’t know what a good investment was aside from the things House had labelled as such.

“It is. With refreshments at one and a half times their standard price on the Strip and a 'no outside food allowed’ policy, I estimate that the costs of building the theater will be paid off in three months. There are enough reels to keep New Vegas entertained for a year — and, with any luck, inspire some of them to make their own. They’ll scrape together the funds for their own movies, come to Vegas to showcase their work, and… voilà. Hollywood reborn at Hoover Dam.”

 _Hollywood._ Another new word — she’d ask Grant about it later. “What else is new?”

“The monorail is fully functional, but I've yet to maximise its efficiency — resources are the biggest obstacle there, I'm afraid. Besides that, there are several new businesses you might be interested in visiting after our appointment, a contract in progress with the Kings and Followers regarding the Freeside initiative, and a handful of economy-boosting measures that include projects like The Regal…

“Which brings us to our next order of business,” House said after a beat. “It wasn’t Vegas that called you here to stand before me. You’re not here for a lesson on urban planning. No, you answered to _me_.”

Greta’s eyes widened. Her employer’s characteristic smugness — if she was reading him right — had just evaporated. In its place was something she couldn't quite name, something that reminded her of the conversations they'd had in the Mojave when the only things she’d had to comfort her were the light of a Securitron screen and his voice. Every morning she’d convinced herself her perception had merely been warped by drowsiness the night before. Now she wasn’t sure. “What do you mean by that, sir?” she said uneasily.

“You’ll find out in a moment. Step through the curtains, if you will.”

If House was unwilling to give her more information, Greta knew there wasn’t much she could do to convince him otherwise. She stepped through the tattered, moth-eaten curtains to the other side of the penthouse.

In the middle of the room was what looked like an oversized metal cocoon. It was split horizontally in the middle, bottom half secured to the floor by a sturdy base while the top half — a tinted glass dome supported by a ribbed metal frame — attached to an arm that stood waiting at the foot of the machine. On the underside a snarl of cables, thick and black, had been bundled together with electrical tape; they snaked across the length of the room where they ended in two computer mainframes, cuboids that blinked red patterns of which no two ever seemed the same even as they changed second to second.

Greta wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it wasn’t what she was looking at. For a moment she stared uncomprehendingly at the pod House had directed her to; then, turning to face the direction of his computer, she called out, “What _is_ it?”

“What you’re looking at is a virtual reality simulator I negotiated from the Boomers. A relatively new technology before the bombs fell, they found primary use as training programs, ways to mine tactical data from battlefields. A few were manufactured by Vault-Tec for more civilian purposes — preserving residents in stasis, for example — but they remained largely military property.

“You can imagine what the Boomers found when they settled at Nellis Air Force Base and just how… _coincidentally compatible_ it was with their goals. Since they've effectively moved out, it wasn't difficult to have Grant acquire one... and before you ask,” he added, as if somehow sensing Greta had opened her mouth to speak, “you _won’t_ be flying. I’ve repurposed this one.”

“For what?”

“I invite you to see for yourself. It is, after all, your surprise.”

With that, Greta, knowing she would get nothing more out of him, turned back to the machine and cautiously approached it. She rounded it once, then twice, to get a better idea of its shape. On the second pass, she noticed there was a panel in the side with a button that read OPEN. As she shot one last glance over her shoulder at the room she was in — the familiar sleek curves and red lanterns, the stone walls and ancient bookcases — she hoped it would all still be there when she stepped out.

Then she depressed the button, and the machinery hissed and whirred into life. The glass dome popped open until it came to rest at a near perpendicular angle to the bottom half of the pod, revealing a reclinable leather chair with a headpiece that looked like it was intended to pull the thoughts from her head.

As if on cue, a new worry sprang to mind.

“Mr. House? Will I be okay when I'm, umm, you know…?”

“I doubt it will interact with the component at all,” he answered breezily. “If you're unsure, I'll dispatch you to Freeside unarmed and unaided after this.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause just a little too long to feel natural, then House sighed.

“You’d go with Victor, of course.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

Her fears thus put to rest, Greta pulled herself up onto the simulator’s platform and lowered herself into the seat. In response to what she could only assume was the added weight, the chair began to recline and the dome, which felt smaller than it had looked from the outside, closed in. Then a second screen she hadn’t noticed before (it had come up with the lid, she saw now) approached her, directing her gaze slightly upward. _PLEASE STAND BY_ , it read.

It was only a moment. After that, she was plunged into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

She didn't know how long it took for her to realise she was separate from the void. Like the penthouse, the passage of time was difficult to gauge when everything looked the same, and it was doubly difficult when outside didn’t exist. Everything was empty — a yawning stretch of black around her, inside her, extending in every direction, a comfortable nothingness that enveloped her limbs in its complete absence like the prelude to a dream.

For a while, she lay undisturbed in her cradle. Then, without warning, a voice crackled into existence.

_I'll need to know a few things before we can proceed._

Normally, she would have questioned voices that appeared out of nowhere, but it didn’t feel separate from the void. Instead of wondering, she told it, _Okay._

_What colour are your eyes?_

She thought about it a moment. _Eyes._ Despite not seeing anything, she was suddenly aware of having them, what it meant to have them. _Grey_.

Another stretch of time passed - seconds, minutes, hours, who knew? - before the voice returned. _Your hair this time._

_Brown._

_What kind of brown?_

_...Dark?_

_You’ll need to be more specific_ , it demanded, souring slightly. _Think in terms of the Lucky 38._

Images of the casino came flooding back to her, as did memories of someone cutting her hair in the catacombs of an old church. They’d swept away the tufts of brown into a dustpan, emptied them into the garbage so that when she looked into it, she'd seen…

 _The colour of wood._ _Like the legs of the chairs in the penthouse. Like the bookcases._

_Excellent. And when you look at your wrists, are the veins blue or green?_

Wrists. She had those, too. _Blue._

The voice went quiet again. She didn’t know why, but she had the distinct sense that it was inputting her answers into some equation. _Are you God?_ she asked when it had been silent for a while.

_Don't be ridiculous. You know who I am._

_Who?_

_Is there a colour you prefer above the rest?_

A colour. _Was_ there a colour she liked more than the others? Shades of brown and blue — shades of the Mojave — flashed through her mind. Red? Blood, the Institute's lab coats stashed in the Robotics office, the everything of the Lucky 38…

Then a memory settled upon her gently, noiselessly. She remembered the soft glow of a computer screen in the pitch-black night, how even in the mountains surrounding Jacobstown it had reminded her of home. _Green_ , she said decisively.

_Good. That will be all. Speak to the bouncer; he’ll let you in._

_The bouncer?_

“Miss?”

She spun around on legs she’d forgotten she had, startled by the addition of a new voice. No — multiple new voices.

Scores of them, she thought, staring at the people behind her.

Decked in spotless pre-War wear she had occasionally spotted in the bureaus and wardrobes of ruined houses, men and women stood, shoulder to shoulder, in an uneven line, their faces animated by conversation. It was a long line, too, spilling beyond the doorstep of the Lucky 38 into the streets of New Vegas, past the casino’s neon sign that read not _revolting cocktail lounge_ , but _revolving cocktail lounge_ …

That was when Greta remembered who she was, and looked down. The standard-issue Follower uniform — coat, blouse, khakis, boots — met her eye, albeit wrinkle-free (impressive — she’d never seen anything ironed outside of the the Strip) and purged of blood and dust. She’d been made tidy. Presentable.

“…Miss.”

The voice was behind her again. She turned around to face it and almost smacked into a giant of a man, solidly built and stuffed in a suit whose collar was too tight for his bulging neck. Fortunately, he seemed entirely too tired to be intimidating.

As soon as she’d laid eyes on him, Greta knew she was staring at the bouncer. He just _looked_ it.

For his part, the bouncer seemed glad that he finally had her attention. “Your name,” he said, waving a clipboard too small for his hands.

“Er — Greta. Or R9-07.”

He ran over the paper with the tip of his pen (also too small), seemingly found it, and scribbled something beside it. “Go on in.”

So she did. The casino was brighter than she remembered, she thought as she stepped into it. So bright, she could make out almost every person within the throng.

Wait. There were people _inside the Lucky 38._

As she clung to the wall, Greta marvelled at them pulling slot machine levers in unison, clinking their glasses in unison, cheering in unison. More than a few tables were crammed with nervous young couples in their evening best, while several hosted balding, liver-spotted older men who puffed cigars between their fat, beringed fingers. Between tables, waitresses — tall, rouged, and curvy — evaded the same fingers with ease as they served drinks and slipped secret notes from one table to another, clockwork soldiers in the rush to get everyone just drunk enough for swindling.

This wasn’t New Vegas at all. It had to be Las Vegas.

 _Correct_ , said the voice, and Greta jumped. At the same time, she finally recognised it.

_Mr. House!_

_Yes. Not God, you’ll note._

She blushed. _It was an easy mistake._

_What, thinking that you had managed to contact God?_

_You don't know how surreal that was, sir, I had to adjust. Besides, you were asking me some odd questions... what did you need me to tell you my hair and eye colour for?_

_My feeds aren’t quite capable of capturing colour. I could have calculated how you look based on probabilities, of course, but direct questioning tends to be faster than running algorithms — and, for that matter, more accurate. Would you have preferred it if I'd gotten everything wrong?_

_I think you would have minded more than me._

_Hmm._

She turned her attention back to the casino as a cheer erupted from the roulette tables. Someone had won big. The pit boss, smile taut, was inching closer to them.

_Not even the Tops holds a candle to this._

_Not yet, at least. There’s a ways to go, as you can imagine, but Vegas_ will _rise again. Her flame might have dwindled to embers over time, but even as she lay forgotten in the middle of the desert, nothing — raiders, dust storms, or NCR — ever quite managed to snuff her out. After the battle at Hoover Dam, she reawoke with a vengeance. Give me a few years, and you’ll see everything on the Strip as you’re seeing it here._

To her left a herd of people descended from the bar on the upper level and headed toward the elevator. Their steps were clumsy and unsure, their faces bright, rosy red.

 _Speaking of the Tops_ , said House as they tried to pile into the car all at once, _directly above us is a theater much like the Aces. Only with vastly superior entertainment._

_What makes you say that?_

_The Tops never hosted the likes of Dean Domino or Vera Keyes, though I will admit, there’s no equivalent to that level of stardom now. Still, I doubt it could have afforded them even if it had existed then. People paid small fortunes to get in on nights like those. The casinos couldn’t turn a profit from their exorbitant performance fees otherwise._

_And I got in for free!_ said Greta, lighting up.

_Yes. You’re VIP, you know._

_Are there some famous people around tonight? Do you think I’d like it?_

_I could tell you, but where’s the fun in that?_

Greta glanced over at the elevator. The group had left behind three men, so she slipped over to join the wait.

“Hey, toots,” said one of them as soon as he noticed her. “Come to lend a hand with all the broken legs?”

She parroted him in alarm. “Broken legs? Where?”

“What? Nah, nah, ain't you familiar with jargon? Break a leg means — wassitmeanfrank? — y’know, good luck. Like, uh, break a leg on opening night. Dig?”

She didn't, but nodded anyway. They stared awkwardly at her.

Miraculously, the elevator returned then, its doors sliding open with a welcoming _ding_. She stepped in with the three men, who, apparently inspired by the change of scenery, moved on to the topic of waitresses. As the elevator car crawled upward to the next floor, she realised that House was responsible even for these odd exchanges.

He didn't dignify the epiphany with an answer. Instead, the elevator slowed, opened its doors, and dinged again.

They stepped into a hall where a woman with coiffed blonde hair smiled at them, then waved them toward the double doors marked “Theater.” As they approached, the same man who had started conversation with her strode ahead, pulled one open, and stepped aside.

“Ladies first.”

From within the darkness someone was crooning to the notes of a saxophone, low and sad. The tune reminded her a little of “Johnny Guitar.”

When she did step through, the men followed behind her, their conversation dwindling to a whisper as they entered the passageway. And because they seemed to know where they were going (and because she decidedly did not), Greta trailed after them — rounding the corner when they rounded it, quieting the sound of her breathing when they did, and stopping when they stopped at the mouth of the theater that housed what felt like one hundred or more shadow people all swaying gently to the contralto of a woman with a shimmering red dress and flowers in her hair.

Then the three men stole into the darkness, and Greta was alone.

_Who is that?_

_Billie Thurmond Cole_ , said House, and suddenly a shiver ran through her that she wasn’t sure was because of Billie or because House’s voice had gone soft again. _One of Vegas’s own. Lost to time, unfortunately — not even a memory can do her justice._

_I’m getting goosebumps, so I think you’re doing pretty well._

There was a rare note of wistfulness in his answer. _Not as well as I could have. What I can offer you is only a fraction of the original experience, unfortunately. Now… take a seat, will you?_

She carefully considered the layout of the auditorium, then headed for the middle of the room. There was a man already at the table she’d staked out, but he didn’t seem to mind as she pulled up the empty chair and sat in it.

She sat through “Nobody Knows,” “No Place Like Home,” and “Yellow Was The Sun” (the titles of which House gave her as Billie started singing them) with rapt attention. Their order was artfully chosen, she told him, a rollercoaster of bittersweet, hopeful, upbeat, sad. And the longer it went on, the less she was aware of herself. Like her initiation to virtual reality, darkness began to swallow everything into itself, absorbing the surroundings until there was no her, no passage of time, no simulation; gradually she even paid less attention to the voice in her head. Only the experience of Billie — her voice, her dress, her flowers, and her lips — remained.

“…next song is a request from a friend of mine,” Billie was saying. “I wasn’t sure at first. Most songs you get tired of hearing after the hundredth time or so, and you’ve all definitely heard this one more than a hundred times. But then I went home and listened to the song a hundred more times from a hundred different people — which is a hundred times total, folks, I’m not _that_ crazy — and I realised… _well!_ I could do this a hundred times _better_ than those hundred times!”

The audience laughed, and Billie swept an arm to the warbling flourish of a marimba.

“Ba ba ba ba ba ba boo wee boo wee…”

Though she barely registered it, Greta felt the table shift.

“See the pyramids along the Nile… watch the sunrise on a tropic isle…”

Now there was movement in the corner of her eye.

“Just remember, darling, all the while — you belong to me…”

And someone touching her hand.

The shock of warmth was enough to jolt her out of her trance. Blinking, she turned to the man whose table she had joined and waited for her eyes to adjust from no longer looking at the spotlight. Even when they did, his profile was so unfamiliar, so unexpected, that she didn’t recognise him until he turned to her.

“Mis—?”

He put a finger to his lips, gave her a smile that suggested her reaction amused him, and turned back to the stage. She didn’t turn with him. Whatever sway Billie had held over her was broken, dwarfed by the potpourri of emotions the sudden apparition of Robert Edwin House had created.

While it was still sinking in, she asked, _Why?_

_I'll be happy to answer your questions at a more appropriate time, but for now, you'll just have to bear with it._

Then he squeezed her hand, her entire body flushed hot, and they were both watching Billie again.

“…But remember, when a dream appears, you belong to me…”

Or trying to. Try as she did, Greta was still preoccupied with the feeling of House's hand on hers. It was more callused than she'd expected, the fingertips flat like he'd spent years tapping keys, the palm rough and dry. His fingers were knobby and slender.

These were the hands that saved Las Vegas, she thought idly. The hands he’d traded for claws.

The hand gave a twitch.

“Fly the ocean in a silver plane… see the jungle when it's wet with rain… just remember, 'til you're home again…”

The marimba and its accompanying instruments trailed off. Billie was taking a deep breath.

“You belong to meeeeeee…”

On that last, lingering note, the marimba, trumpets, and cymbals rejoined her, and together they suffused the room with a warmth that settled, like whisky or two-century-old instant coffee, into the cavity of Greta's chest, bright and sad and yearning all at the same time.

Billie swept an arm down, finally spent. When the entire audience began clapping, neither she nor House moved.

 _Are you ready?_ he asked amid the sound of two hundred palms striking each other.

She stared at Billie hard. Words that refused to bend themselves into sentences bubbled to mind as she looked at the star, aglow with a thin sheen of sweat and lips that were Dandy Boy Apple red, on stage.

 _Okay_ , she said after a minute. _Let's go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The song that Billie was singing.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=paHiAP1_eGY) I'm a real sucker for covers of this song. I think I've listened to the one by Dino some fifty times and the one by the Duprees five hundred times. Also, have [yet more context that isn't technically canon for this fic](http://ebooleant.tumblr.com/post/171001364503/house-im-flesh-and-blood-not-silicon-r9-07), but will likely help you understand it better.
> 
> Okay, thanks for reading along this far. I'll see you in the next chapter.


End file.
